No meat, no music, and the Gospel According to Mark

Today is Good Friday. Despite careful planning, I have already messed up what I consider a Good Catholic Woman's Good Friday Observance.
First, I slept in past 9 a.m. Specifically, I got out of bed at 10:42, which is one hour and forty-two minutes past the time Jesus was nailed to the cross. My plan was to be wide awake, sitting in my comfy chair, sans barking dogs and the Rachael Ray show. The plan was already to have read the Gospel According to Mark, so that I would be ready for prayerful meditation by nine clock chimes.
Nope.
Instead, I lazily got out of bed late, sneezing and befuddled as to why I had six random maroon spots on my forehead. I took a Zyrtec and my morning Prilosec and swiftly brewed a cup of hot coffee. I thought briefly that my itching throat and spotted forehead was a Significant Sign of Doom (i.e. impending death), but then I realized that Death by Hives was nothing compared to what our dear Lord and Savior endured in the hours leading up to his crucifixion. So I sucked up my anxiety and planted my butt in the comfy chair. First, I grabbed two of Estee's delicious gluten-free sugar cookies, which I realized, after immense enjoyment, were foodstuffs not on the list of Good Friday edibles. Also not on the list of Important Things to do on Good Friday was tending to my virtual bakery, Kay's Place, but I did, in fact, spend sixty seconds preparing pretend cinnamon rolls, all the while justifying my behavior by saying silently, It is only sixty seconds. Then I felt more than sixty seconds of guilt and got back on track.
Finally, I set my iPhone down and opened my Bible to the Gospel According to Mark and set to reading. After re-reading multiple times multiple verses, I remembered that I needed to pray for understanding of The Word. Which I did: Dear Lord, help me focus on your words; help me understand what you're saying; help me help myself. Amen.
Then God gave me the understanding of His word, because He knows my ADD is out-of-control and I am a deeply flawed (virtual slave to virtual games) and sinful woman (yes, I have thought of other men, lots of times) AND my memory sucks and even passages I've read before present themselves as brand-new sentences.
And yet. The Gospel According to Mark made sense to me, because I had prayed for it to be so. Well, all except the part about the widow Herodias who wanted John the Baptist to marry her and when he refused, she got extraordinarily angry and that anger flowed into her daughter and after that daughter had danced for Herod at his birthday banquet, he said he'd give her anything in his kingdom and she said she wanted John the Baptist's head on a platter. (Mark 6: 1-29)
It was my daughter Estee, who sat at her computer in another room who heard me muttering, I don't get this. I'm missing something --words which I thought were silent but ended up not silent at all. Like I said, she was in a completely different room in the house and still heard me. She explained easily and my confusion disappeared, and I am here to tell you now, that for a person who says she detests religion, she sure knows her Bible.
Also, there was the part about the woman telling Jesus even the dogs ate the children's scraps under the table (Mark 7:24-30). I had to reread that part no fewer than five times AND consult an online explanation (It is, yet again, a parable. The children represent the prior claim of the Jews to the ministry of Jesus: let them eat first.) I had remembered this parable causing confusion the first time I heard Father Jeff at St. Ann's talk of it in his homily.  I had finally gotten the message. But then I had forgotten it. Like I said, my memory is one big fat marshmallow: sweet but little substance.
I am a child of God, however. I am learning.

Mark 15:33-41: At noon darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. And at three o'clock Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?" which is translated, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Some of the bystanders who heard it said, "Look, he is calling Elijah." One of them ran, soaked a sponge with wine, put it on a reed, and gave it to him to drink, saying, "Wait, let us see if Elijah comes to take him down." Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. The veil of the sanctuary was torn in two from top to bottom. When the centurion who stood facing him saw how he breathed his last he said, "Truly this man was the Son of God!" There were also women looking on from a distance. Among them were Mary of Magdalene, Mary the mother of the younger James and of Joses, and Salome. These women had followed him when he was in Galilee and ministered to him. There were also many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem.

Silver Linings Playbook hits close to home

Bradley Cooper is one fine-looking man, which explains my primary motivation behind going to see Silver Linings Playbook this afternoon. My husband went along, too, which was only marginally annoying. Once the movie started, I kinda forgot he was there (we had our own popcorn).
It wasn't long into the movie when Cooper's beautiful face and erratic behavior began to look eerily familiar. I grew up with a good-looking, mentally ill father (he was a dead ringer for Paul Newman). Dad's diagnosis was bi-polar disorder, although back in the 70s, the term was manic-depressive. He threw fits. He raged. He repeated himself, repeated himself, repeated himself. He used alcohol to moderate his mood swings. He was drunk a lot. When AA rolled around, a court-ordered deal, the orange vodka and cases of beer left the house, but Dad set up permanent residency. He became agoraphobic and had to physically prepare (shit, shave, and shower, as he put it) just to get the mail at the end of the driveway. He quit mowing the lawn. Was the first person to see his barber, 'cause there was no way in hell he was going to wait with other people around. He wore sun glasses most of the time. No one, under any circumstances, was to look at him as he ate his evening meal, including our dog. As a family, my parents and two sisters went nowhere together. No restaurants, no amusement parks, no vacations. Dad missed my high school graduation, my college graduation, and my wedding.
I am not bitter. I loved my father. I understood his mental illness.
Myself? I have GAD, an ugly-sounding acronym for Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which means, at its rawest definition, that I worry a lot. I perceive the world to be A Very Dangerous Place. I have ADD, but I am not medicated for that. As a writer, I need my creativity. I feel that meds for attention-deficit-disorder would be too numbing.
I have Major Depressive Disorder, along with a depressive nature, definitely a half-glass-empty gal am I, but this is in stark contrast to the way I make myself live my life, which is to focus on beauty and laughter. Whenever I start to feel the black veil of don't-give-a-shit taking over, I make myself get out of the bed. I head first to the kitchen. I brew strong caffeinated coffee, a mood lifter when I cannot seem to lift myself, and then I grab an orange, cold and perfect from the fridge. I savor it ... its shape and color and juiciness. I read somewhere ~ I think it was an Elizabeth Berg novel, where the main character cannot figure out why another character killed himself. Didn't he want one more orange? she asks.
When I don't need the immediacy of a coffee or orange mood-boost, I have back-up plans: I head to the theater and watch a funny movie, or I go and rent one. I watch funny videos on youtube. I drive to the mall, the one that's really too far away, but there's a pet store there, and I love to watch the puppies fall over themselves. I read my Bible. I surround myself with children; they bring me great joy. I listen to beautiful music, which on any given day might be Lady Gaga's mellow offering, "Brown Eyes," or Anything by Edith Piaf (I love the French language), or my favorite gospel song, "Take Me to the King," by Tamela Mann ("I don't have much to bring, my heart's torn in pieces, it's my offering ... lay me at the throne, leave me there alone, to gaze upon your glory and sing to you this song ... .").
***
There are three of us girls, but only I have sought professional help. I take a little white pill every day that keeps the panic attacks away. Until Lexapro, I died many, many times. That's how scary panic attacks are. You truly, truly think you are dying. I have awakened many mornings, surprised, that I survived the night. Because of medication and counseling, I exist in the world and I live responsibly and gloriously. I have been blessed with a long-term marriage (28 years) and three amazing children, all of whom are adults. I have many, many friends and wonderful neighbors. I taught English at the high school and middle school level. I went to work; I earned money; I vacationed with my family.
Of my three children, two have seen psychiatrists: there's ADD, ADHD, major depressive disorder, an initial diagnosis of bipolar (turned out to be wrong), OCD, and GAD. The alphabet soup in this house requires prescription medications.
***
Mental illness is a biochemical issue, as I see it. I have seen meds work wonders in my dad's life, my own life, in my own house. The Bradley Cooper character in Silver Linings didn't want to take his, and when that part of the movie played I cringed. So typical, that behavior. I have thought it myself at times. Yes, that Lexapro is responsible for some of my weight gain ("bloat," as Cooper calls it in the movie), and, yes, it is responsible for some of my fatigue, but I will swallow it down. Once a day, every day, I will take that pill. I will enjoy my life.

Figuring things out ...

I haven't been blogging: 1) My best gal pal's 18-year-old son was killed on the Fourth of July (motorcycle accident: NOT HIS FAULT); 2) I've been distracted by Facebook, what with getting an account and all; 3) I've been reading and reading (trying to get through YA titles); 4) Summer school's kicking my butt (a language acquisition course); 5) My children continue to be needy, which I love, as being needed fills me with contentment.
So I've been busy.
But Alex's death has really made me reprioritize what's important on this earth. My new fat roll should not be giving me stress; the abundance of animal hair in the house should not be making me crazy; the kid clutter and dirty dishes in the sink (perpetual, it seems) should not be cause for whining.
Because my children are all alive, and there are wonderful animals (two cats, one dog) to offer creature comfort, and my husband and I still really, truly love each other, and our house protects us and I have my library and a closet full of clothes and a pantry stocked with food.
My life is so, so good.
I am a blessed woman.